Mock Writes: Wyatt and Darius

Hey all! So my intention is to have a place on this site to post free works for you. There will be spanking stories. There will be time stamps from my published works. There will be some of my musings. Eventually I'll take the time (aka. Call Wix) and get help to make the vision of I what I see for this. For now, I'll post them in my blog section and try to label them well so you can find them.

To start, you're going to get three short stories. I asked IG to send me "Hot Men". From there I had intended to muse some stuff, just a few short things and post them on IG.

This IS short! But it's too long for IG. So I've posted the whole thing here.

The first one is from @Author_Garry_Michael. By the way, he just published his debut novel: Point Break A Novel. I read it and it's super sweet. You can find it here if you wanna check it out: Point Break. There's a new YA version and an audiobook!

He requested that this lovely man be named Wyatt and that he was discharged due to PTSD.

You Can Tremor Beside Me

Wyatt and Darius (1/1)

My hands clench and I close my eyes. Count to ten, Wyatt. Count to fucking ten. Thanks to Dr. Irvin, this mother fucker’s not getting punched in the face.

“I said no. I don’t drink.” Now go the fuck away.

My hands tremble. The tremors won’t stop. He’s looking at them.

He sits beside me anyway. I give him my darkest look. It doesn’t deter him. He slides into the chair like someone put it there for him. He’s thin with long legs in crisp black slacks. Tall. His blue tie is loose and hanging askew around his neck with the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. He hangs his black blazer—that one had hung off his long fingers—over the chair.

“You know what your problem is?”

Awesome. One of these assholes. I ignore him.

He signals for the bartender to bring him a scotch and loosens his tie further. “As I was saying, your problem. You need to lighten up. Have fun. Know how you have fun? Alcohol. One drink won’t kill you.”

I know what will get rid of him. The truth. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.”

He smirks. “See? Didn’t it feel good to get that out of the way? Now we have nothing to hide from each other. A cranberry soda with lime for my friend here. Hold the vodka.”

“I told you—”

“—no. Got that.” He’s so fucking smug. “I just don’t listen very well. People say it’s part of my charm.”

“Hold the cranberry, Eddie,” I tell him. Eddie. The bartender. I don’t like it. I won’t have Eddie wasting his cranberry juice on me.

“Tell me,” he says laying his hand flat on the bar top. “What’s a recovering alcoholic doing in a bar? This some kind of masochistic thing?”

I don’t answer. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll go away. I don’t look at him, but I have good peripheral vision and can’t help taking stock of what’s around me. He’s got blond hair and hazel eyes. His hair’s a mess; stiff in places. Like it was neatly gelled back but maybe he ran his hands through it too many times. It flops all over the place when he moves, like wet yarn.

Eddie brings our drinks. Blondie swirls his scotch and takes a slow sip. I keep my eyes fixed on the hockey game.

His eyes flicker to the TV. “Ah. No ESPN at home then.”

Fine. So, he’s an observant fucker. I’ll give him that. I make the mistake of looking at him.

He smiles like he won something. I look away pissed at myself.

“I had a parrot once,” he says.

He would. Looks rich. Rich people have exotic shit for the sake of having exotic shit. I don’t give him any inclination that I’m listening. But I am listening to my dismay, missing the hockey game.

“Fucking nasty piece of shit. He bit everyone. Fucking asshole bird. He wouldn’t talk either and parrots are supposed to fucking talk—that’s why you get a parrot.”

Then he pulls out his phone. Doesn’t finish the story. He sips his scotch without looking up, focused on his phone. He orders wings. Eddie puts them down between us and now it’s like we’re something, hanging out in comfortable silence.

I will not ask about the damn parrot. I don’t care. Besides. I know what you do with things that don’t work how they’re supposed to. You get rid of them. It probably ended up in a pet store. It’s probably withering in a cage.

He eats the wings he ordered. They’re messy and he has to lick his fingers. The sucking sounds he makes go straight to my cock. And grate on my nerves. I grit my teeth and inhale slow, adjusting myself so he won’t notice. I have to look though. I flick my eyes over, his head’s still in his phone, long strands of hair hanging in his face. He huffs at whatever he’s dealing with, blowing his hair upward. Biting his lip.

I flush hot. The half chub in my pants hardens. No. No Wyatt.

He looks up and catches me looking at him. I look away but it’s too late. His satisfied smile burns into the side of my skull and I sip my soda without thinking—I wasn’t planning on drinking it.

“I’m Darius,” he says. He waits. When I say nothing he says, “Now you say, hi I’m Major So-and-so.”

I whip my head around and squint at him. “How’d you know I was a Major?”

He snatches the tags around my neck, only able to do it because I wasn’t expecting him to. I grab his wrist lightning fast—it’s a soft wrist—but he’s already got them clutched in his finely manicured hand. “Let go,” I say.

He laughs but he lets go. “I didn’t know. I don’t know much about the army; only rank I could think of.”

“Marines,” I say throwing his arm away.

“Okay. The Marines. That all I had to do to get you to talk? You said was—so how’d you get axed? Was it a code red situation? Was Jack Nicholson at your hearing?”

I wanna pull my hair out. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“No.” He’s unapologetic. “If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll call you Major. Major Handsome.” He waggles his brow.

I glare. “You’re a fucking brat.”

“It’s been said.” He blinks his hazel eyes. He leans over. “You wanna spank me.”

My heart races. I tear my gaze away. Go back to watching the game. Eventually he’s into his phone again.

It wouldn’t work anyway. He’s not interested in hockey at all. I need someone who likes hockey.

Then just fuck him, Wyatt. S’probably all he wants anyway.

No.

I watch the game. He eats his wings, orders more scotch and does whatever on his phone. I get used to it—the comfortable silence. But there’s something else too. Some pull making me interested. I get curious about what he’s doing. I look up just as they’re showing the replay of the goal that just happened. I missed it.

“Aren’t you supposed to cheer when your team scores?” he asks.

“Not my team.”

“You didn’t cheer for the other one either.” His smugness grows.

Did I miss two goals? “If you’d stop talking and let me watch.”

“I haven’t said anything for ten minutes.” His voice is shrill. Flirty.

I swallow. My heart races again. Why’s he doing this to me? I suck back the rest of my drink.

“Another round for my companion,” he says. “Least you’re a cheap date, Major.”

“This ain’t a date and don’t call me that.”

He shrugs. Eddie brings me another soda with lime, and I resolve not to talk to Darius for however long he remains. And he will leave. Speaking of him leaving, he’s got to switch to water soon, right? That’s his third scotch. He can’t drive home. How did he get here? Maybe he’ll need a ride home.

I’m thinking too much about him. He orders a fourth scotch. I miss another goal. I hope he doesn’t notice, and I resolve to pay better attention to the game. Finally, I get into the game, like I should have been. Darius falls away from my radar. I don’t forget he’s there, but I stop letting him distract me.

The game’s almost over. When I look up, Darius is paying his tab—our tab—and putting his blazer on. He’s leaving?

Cold grips me. My stomach hollows. I’ll never see him again. So. So what?

The night was warm. There was something nice about feeling him beside me. I didn’t fidget. I didn’t think about … about, well about … I didn’t think about anything. Not once. It’s always at least once in a two-hour span. I can’t even be around friends anymore. They stopped coming ‘round too and I don’t blame them.

I used to have my shit together. Now, I’m a fucking mess.

I’m withering.

But Darius, there’s something sharp about him. I don’t think he’d break easy. I don’t think he’d break at all.

“Well, Major. I’m out. I’d say it’s been fun, but it really hasn’t. Worst date ever.”

He adjusts his collar. I burn at him. This wasn’t a date. God I just wanna - wanna take him over my knee. He’s so fucking lippy. As he walks by, I snatch his wrist without thinking about it. “Don’t.”

He freezes. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t go.”

I breathe carefully, a strong mix of wanting to spank the life out of him and kiss him coursing through me. For once he’s speechless. He’s not smiling though and that’s my fault. Actually, now that I’m looking straight at him, the circles under his eyes are dark. There’s a cut on his other cheek, the one that was turned away from me and a bruise is blooming. My chest thrums, my hands tremble—fucking hands—but I don’t let go his wrist. It’s coming on. It’s coming. The thought of letting him go makes the tremors worse.

You don’t fucking know him, Wyatt. Yeah, I know. It doesn’t change that when he leaves I’m going to break down. It’s exactly the reason I should let him leave. “Wyatt.” I don’t mean to grunt it at him, but I do. “I’m, Wyatt.”

He twists his lips. What does that mean? He no longer interested? He reaches for my dog tags, getting closer, looking them over. “Reeves. Major Reeves.”

He’s too quiet now, can barely meet my eyes. Where are all his words now? I affect him. Fuck. I can breathe again. “You should know, I wake up screaming. Often.”

“That all I had to do to get you to talk? Leave?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. I figured there was more. Your hands tremble—a lot.”

I drop his wrist. It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s supposed to be gone now. Lord knows I’ve put the work in. But nothing works. Alcohol did sometimes.

“Stop that. Time for you to pony up, Major. Besides. I’m not about to apologize for anything in my character. What you see is what you get.”

I’m probably supposed to do something now, but I can’t.

“You’re bad at this,” he says.

I get cloudy and dark—he’s got a such a mouth on him.

He sighs. Then he straddles my leg, putting his hands on my thick shoulders. I tingle everywhere. I force myself to stare directly at him. “What happened to your face?” I ask. I run a gentle thumb over the break in his skin. Freshly scabbed over. He flinches but doesn’t move away.

“My brother.” My whole face frowns. “Don’t get like that. I deserved it. I lost him a lot of money. A lot. I’m lucky that’s all he did.”

I let it go for now. But I’m not forgetting about it. “You need a ride home? You had four scotches.”

His face cracks into a huge smile. He laughs. “What was the score of the game, Major?”

What was the…? Dammit. I don’t know. “If someone hadn’t distracted me, I’d know.”

“I was a silent, good boy most of your game,” he says quietly. He leans down to my ear. “Take me to your place. I can make it up to you. Really good at sucking cock, Major Reeves.”

I shiver. My cock likes that, perking up again. But no. I take his hand and cup it in both of mine. He’s got long fingers. He seems sober but I’m not sleeping with this one after he’s had four scotches, not the first time anyway. Lord help me, I don’t want to say goodbye to him.

Just the night, Wyatt. One night’s okay.

I make the pact with myself.

“C’mon.” I tug him along. My tags jangling at my neck.

I live close. A few blocks. It’s a nice apartment but nothing fancy. “My car’s here,” he says when he sees we’re walking.

“We’ll come back to get it when you’re sober.”

“I am sober. A little scotch doesn’t affect my ability to drive.”

How many times have I said that? “No.”

He whines and complains. I tug him along while he scowls at me. The night’s warm. I’m glad I only wore a t-shirt (I like V-necks) and loose jeans. He must be hot in all those clothes. His fancy black shoes shine under the fading sun.

When we get into my apartment, I fill a glass of water and start putting together a snack for him as he wanders around, no apology for acting like he owns the place. “Oh my God you are a Major—look at the precision of this bed!” he shouts from my bedroom. “Could bounce a quarter off of this.”

“Get out of there,” I say still in the kitchen, but I don’t retrieve him. “I hope you took your shoes off.”

I don’t hear from him. I take the water and head to the bedroom. His blazer is thrown over the chair, his black slacks tossed on the floor. No. No, no. He can’t come in here and throw his shit all over my floors. He’s really going to get it and I mean to give it to him but when I look up, I freeze. He’s on my bed, wrinkling the sheets with his body. My breath catches in my throat—his shirt’s open, hand down his pants, stroking his dick. I have to watch him a moment—just a moment. He’s biting his lip again, my dick twitches and when he inhales I do it with him. We exhale together.

“There you are. I got started,” he says.

I walk over to the bed like a storm and set the glass on the bedside table. “Take your hand off your dick. We’re not doing that.”

He takes his hand off his dick and sits up on his elbows. I’m surprised he obeyed so easily.

I have the urge to see him in my clothes. He’s tall but I’m a lot wider; he’d drown in them. I move to my drawers. “Oh, I see. Into some weird kinky shit, huh Major? I knew it. I fucking knew it. I know my own kind. So, what we doing? Some kinda orgasm denial? ‘Cause I’m here for it. You got a cock cage in that drawer? My safeword’s pineapple.” His speech isn’t impaired—figures with him, bet he talks circles around everyone drunk or sober—but his eyes are droopy, his movements too slow and sloppy. It’s not obvious though. Another might miss it.

You don’t make it as a Major in the marines missing little details like that though.

I toss a grey t-shirt at him. “Put that on.”

His brow frowns but he does as told, removing his white, long-sleeved button up when he sees I’m taking my jeans off and stripping down to my boxers. “I don’t know what you’re into, but for the record, so far this is as unfun as the bar.”

“I’m not fun.”

He throws his shirt at my head and laughs at the shock on my face. I catch it and add it to his other items. When I turn to him, we stare and he’s quiet again. He’s … pretty. Real pretty.

“You just gonna stand there with your arms crossed? I can’t decide if it’s brooding and sexy or creepy and stalkerish. Leaning toward the latter at the moment. Totally digging both.”

Does he ever stop talking? I stalk over to him as he sits up from his elbows, spreading his legs wide so I can stand between them. His head tilts back and his hazel eyes are big as they stare at me. His arms slide around my thick thighs, I card a hand through his crunchy, blond hair, tugging at the strands till they’re all soft.

I want to kiss him. He’ll have scotch on his lips, it’ll taste so good.

Then he’ll leave when he finds out I’m not fucking him. I imagine what he’ll look like putting his clothes on in an angry haste. He’ll say something insulting which will help. I’ll shake again.

I’m shaking now.

He takes my arm and rubs it. “Are you okay, Wyatt?”

“No. I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again. You wanna leave?”

“No.” I relax. “But if you don’t kiss me soon, I’m gonna kiss this and I don’t think you want me to.”

He nuzzles his face into my crotch, rubbing my dick; these boxers are way too fucking thin. I inhale sharply and force myself to grab the side of his face and turn it up to mine. I lean down and attach my lips to his. They’re soft and plump. When they part, I dip my tongue inside. I’m not a clean-cut guy, my face is probably rough against his smooth skin. But I want him to feel me.

“That was worth suffering your taciturn presence,” he says when we part.

“You sat next to me.” I glare.

He laughs. “Soooo, if we’re not fucking and I’m not allowed to drive home, unless you’re calling me a taxi, I require you to feed me.”

“You always this bossy?”

“Always. But so are you.”

“How so?”

“Take your shoes off, Darius. Don’t touch your dick Darius. Don’t drive home drunk, Darius.”

“All of that’s reasonable stuff.”

“To you.”

I pull him off my bed and take him to the couch. He doesn’t last and passes out, with his head on one of my large throw pillows, his feet in my lap. I keep my trembling hands occupied by massaging his bare feet. I watch Netflix until the sun is gone and the summer air coming in the window turns cool.

I should put a blanket over him and leave him out here to sleep, but I can’t. I scoop him up bridal style. It’s awkward with his height but he’s a wisp of a thing and I’ve got arms like barrels. I take him to bed with me. He wakes and smiles, wrapping his arms around my neck, laying his head on my shoulder. “I’m really not feeling the scotch anymore,” he says. “Your morals will remain intact if you fuck me.”

He nuzzles into my neck.

“Not fucking you, sweetheart. We’re just going to bed.”

“Least I’ll get to hear you scream.”

“Huh?”

“You said you wake up screaming.” He yawns.

Shit. I forgot I told him. Better if he knows though. “You want me to take you back to your car?”

“Not on your life. Not getting rid of me that easily, Major.”

My heart swells. I put him in bed and climb in behind him. He grips both my hands, wrapping them around his torso. They shake at first but then they calm down. I kiss the back of his head. He smells like expensive cologne and hair products. I don’t know where he came from or why he was in the bar. All I know about him is that his brother punched him in the face—I squeeze him thinking about it—and he had a broken parrot. “What did you do with the parrot?”

“Do with the parrot?”

“Yeah. The nasty one who didn’t work right.”

He flips around. “Turns out that parrot had some kinda parrot throat cancer.”

“Did it die?”

“Die? No. He lived. I’ve poured a lot of money into that damn bird, he’d better fucking stay alive. And let me tell you, if his bird heart fails, I’ll have a robotic one made so he’ll live at least as long as I do. I love that fucking asshole.”

“You kept him?”

He stares at me. He squeezes my trembling hands. I barely notice it anymore. ‘Cept when there’s people around. So, I don’t keep people around. Or talk to them. Or let them look at me. “Wyatt, you love something because you love it, not because it’s perfect.”

My eyes wet. A knot loosens in my gut. I can breathe again.

“I can’t wait to have these trembling fingers inside me. It will be like my own vibrating dildo.”

“Darius.”

“Yeah, scold me baby.”

“I do spank. Behave yourself. Go to sleep.”

“You’re still no fun.”

“I don’t ever plan to be.”

He snuggles in. I like him here.

You said just one night, Wyatt. Yeah. But I’m gonna enjoy him for the one night.

~**~

I don’t dream. It’s the sensation of falling off a cliff and then I wake up suddenly. Sweating. At least I don’t scream this time, but I open my eyes breathing heavy. “Wyatt? Wyatt, you awake? It’s me. Darius.”

“I – yeah. I’m awake.” I scrub my face. I can’t escape it for one fucking night. Not one fucking night. I sit up and swing my legs off the bed.

“Hey, you going somewhere, Major? Get back here.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch so at least you can get some sleep.”

“No. Fuck that. If I only get one night with you, I want you in this bed with me, Major.”

“How do you know you only get one night? I never said that.” Out loud.

“You didn’t have to. I can read guys like you pretty well. I saw you sitting at the bar and I said to myself, ‘even if you can get him to fuck you Darius, he’s not letting you stay.’ But I just, you’re big and beefy and most people are smaller than me. I wanted to hang off you so bad. I should have known you’d be too much of a gentleman to do anything much if I drank, but you were making me fucking nervous with your brooding stare and Marine Man precision haircut.”

“How does a haircut make someone nervous?” He’s insane.

“I don’t know but it did. It does. Then I saw your hands tremble and I—”

“—and you felt sorry for me. Know what? Get out. Get the fuck out.” This was a mistake.

“No. No. That’s not what I was gonna say. Would you calm the fuck down?”

I slide my hands in my hair and grip hard at the roots. Until it hurts. Why does this hurt so bad? I don’t know him. It just feels like I know him.

He grabs my hand. I push him away. He grabs again, I push again. Then he catapults himself at me from behind. We wrestle. He’s strong but I’m stronger. I could break him in two, but I don’t wanna hurt him, so I give when he slams his body on mine and I end up on my back. He straddles me. “I don’t feel sorry for you, asshole. I was going to say, you’re like me. You look perfect from the outside, but you’re not. You look like you’ve got it all together—and in some ways you do—but you don’t have it all together.”

His hair flops over his face as he pants hard. Moonlight from the window hits his eyes and they shine. He looks good, drowning in my shirt even though it hangs to where it’s supposed to. Can one soul speak to another, tell it everything, entangle, make you feel like you belong together?

I pull him to me by his neck. This time I’m not gentle, attacking his mouth. He responds in kind.

He tugs me to sit up and pulls off my shirt, but I won’t let his mouth go and has to rip it between our lips. I gather him to me by his thin torso, crossing my arms behind him and kiss him some more. I flip him—us—so he’s on his back, my fingers pry under the elastic of his boxers and I whip them off.

I take him slow then hard then slow again—he winces when my dog tags hit his face. “Want me to take ’em off, darlin’?”

“No. Reminds me who’s fucking me. It’s hot.”

I keep going.

I keep him in my shirt. I taste all of him. I savor how he bites his lip when he comes.

After, I lie naked on top of him, my head on his belly.

I’m not shaking. My body’s at peace. I hold him tighter and fall into a dead sleep.

~**~

In the morning, he’s gone. I scramble for him. The bed’s cold. I shake like I never have before. Tremors take over my limbs. I curl into a tight ball and grip my tags. Fucking things. I should throw them off a cliff.

And I’m about to. Drive to the edge of nowhere. Toss them into the abyss. But I smell coffee. It drifts into my awareness, waking me up like cold water to the face. I turn my head—Darius’s clothes are still hung over my chair.

I throw on a white t-shirt, and grey sweatpants. I pad barefoot out to the kitchen.

Darius is there. He’s wearing one of my hoodies from the academy. He’s found himself a pair of my black pajama bottoms. They fit him lengthwise but he drowns in them how I like.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, his blond hair flopping all over the place. “I made you coffee—let me guess you like it black as your heart—and I’m not much of a cook so I ordered in. Uber eats will be here soon with your breakfast. I’m keeping this by the way.” He tugs at my hoodie he’s wearing. “Payment for putting up with your lame ass at the bar. You really are an unfriendly fucker.”

He’s smirking. I’m gonna kiss the smirk off him. “You don’t drink coffee?” I say approaching him. There’s only one mug out.

“I do, but I thought you’d want me gone as soon as possible—I do respect some boundaries. The night’s over. Fairy Godmother’s magic ends and all that.”

“What if I wanted you to stay longer?”

He reaches to fiddle with my tags, I pull him into my thick arms. Finally, he meets my eyes. I still hate that cut on his face. The bruising’s darker than last night; at least it doesn’t reach his eye. He needs ice. I’m gonna punch his brother in the teeth if he lays a hand on him again. I don’t doubt for a second that Darius is guilty. That he’s a mischievous brat. But nobody’s hitting him again.

“I drink my coffee with cream and honey. Does that exist around here?” he says.

“We’ll pop down to the corner store and get some.” I lift the tags over my head and place them around his, arranging them to settle at the hollow of his neck, under my hoodie. He can hang onto them instead.

And I’ll hang onto him.

THE END

Go to Story #2: Simon and Shane

Want to read more from me? Tristan II is available for preorder. Go HERE.